What Appears to be Dad's First Bar Fight: A Rainy Day Story

            I’m a pretty big Scrooge when it comes to Christmas. This could be due to my years in retail, or my years of just having stressful family Christmases. I don’t care for Christmas decorating; I despise most Christmas music, and don’t even get me started on the sweaters. I’m actually donning one right now, as I participated in my company’s mockery of Christmas disguised as a holiday morale builder. This was funny to me, and I love how we have to refer to it as “Christmas Sweater Day”, not “Wear Your Fucking Most Hideous Ugly Christmas Sweater Day” to protect those poor souls who think a Christmas Sweater can actually be attractive.
            I think most of my animosity toward the holiday is that people don’t appreciate it for what it is supposed to be, a chance for people to get together with the ones they love and care about, to share some laughs, drinks, and of course, food. A lot of people try to do too much, feed into each other’s greed, and then they get stressed out, pissed off, and fight. Also, many people don’t remember those who really need the companionship, and maybe even the presents at this time of year. I’m usually pretty hard to shop for because I’m a confessed greedy bitch all year round, and there’s never anything I really need.
            What I really look forward to at Christmas are the absolute simple things, like going home and seeing friends and family. I would never need another present if I can just do that. I’m really excited to just go to the small town bars back home, buy a whole bunch of cheap beers, and see some old friends. I also like to kill two birds with one stone and make trips to the bar a family affair. This is actually my favorite holiday past time, because a trip to the bar with my parents is always amusing.
            Some time ago, my father, a couple of friends, my husband and I were playing cards at one of the local bars. The bar wasn’t busy; it never really is except on special occasions, as it is pretty much reliant on its regulars. My friends, Dad and I were sitting at a table playing one of Dad’s favorite card games, dubbed “Shit on your Neighbor.” We were getting pretty into our cards and free popcorn when we heard a commotion at the bar.
            “CALL ME ASIAN ONE MORE TIME YOU FUCKING BASTARD!”
            Whoa, what? Now that’s the kind of statement that commands attention. My eyes find a girl at one end of the bar angrily scooting her bar stool behind her. She is so close to us, that her bar stool almost runs into the table next to us. There are about 12 people in this bar, five of which are at my table, so I can easily tell the object of her challenge is a very scared looking guy at the other end of the bar.
            “Whaa..What? I didn’t say anything,” the guy stammers.
            “I’M NOT FUCKING ASIAN, I’M JAPANESE, SO CALL ME FUCKING ASIAN AGAIN!” the girl screams.
            Now, I was an avid fan of “Where in the World is Carmen San Diego?” as a child. At this point, it is about my eighth beer of the night, but I recall Japan being an island off the coast of the mainland continent of Asia, and is considered part of said continent. Even if I’m wrong, which I’m pretty sure I’m not but it’s happened before, I don’t understand why this is offensive. But then again, I’m a card-carrying member of the Wonder White Bread race, and I decide not to be a smart-ass, at least not now at least. I turn my attention onto my cards. My father, who was not schooled on “Don’t get involved in a bar fight” protocol, does a full arm extension finger point and loudly says, “Hey, look at that girl!”
            I ignore him, mentally willing him to follow my lead and just look down as his cards, which are in my plain view. I may win this hand.
            He does not notice anything other than the commotion and starts to elbow me. “Look! Look! I think there's going to be a fight.”
            “DAD! Keep your voice down! Stop staring,” I hiss. I reluctantly look up and watch this girl make her way to the other end of the bar. Not a far distance, probably what my 5’8’’ frame can cover in a few steps, but it takes this girl a while. Stereotype Strike One: This girl cannot be over five feet tall.
            As this girl takes her short, shuffling steps (Stereotype Strike Two), the bar is quiet, and you could hear a pin drop. Dad finally breaks his stare and the silence long enough to turn to my friends and asks in his loud bellowing whisper, “Didn’t that girl say Japanese?”

Oh dear God, don’t say it.

“Doesn’t that make her Asian? Isn’t that the same thing?”

I bury my head in my hands and my friend Justin lets out a drunken giggle. A couple of old farmers look in my dad's direction and give a small agreeing nod, But no one has assured my father.

“Seriously, isn’t Japan part of Asia?” Dad continues to ask.

“Dad please stop talking,” I say and lift my head. Luckily, the girl is too busy screaming at her assailant and is not paying attention to my father. I sigh in relief and just enjoy the show. The situation is escalating, and she is threatening to kick this guy’s ass. Please throw out a karate chop. If this girl shows us some martial arts, I am going to lose it.

It doesn’t get that far. The bartender threatens to throw everyone out if they don’t calm down. The girl gets one more “Don’t fucking call me Asian,” in, and shuffles back to her bar stool.

We continue the card game. Crisis averted. At least until the bartender comes to our table to take another beer order. Dad hands her some cash and says, “Good job keeping the peace. But I've got to ask you, isn’t Japanese and Asian the same thing?”

The girl’s slanted eyes (and that’s Stereotype Strike Three, you’re Asian!) glare at my father. I glare back and give a slight shake of my head. She turns angrily away.

The bartender nervously laughs. “I don’t know Mike, I guess not.”

Merry Christmas everyone! See you at the bar.           

Every age is awkward

           I have only been 25 for a little over a week, and I have already decided it’s a weird age. I am teetering between being really young and being slightly old. There are items of clothing I am starting to deem “too youthful” for me to wear. PINK collection t-shirts only seem acceptable for lounging around the house. I don’t feel comfortable running errands in a sweatshirt. This is unfortunate, considering the disgusting amount I have of each and how much they cost. The jury is still out on leggings. I deem them too young and for people slimmer than myself, but it's also better than seeing full frontal jiggling skin. It's a lesser evil.

            No, a trip to HyVee or Target calls for a nice cardigan with a scarf. Putting my hair in a ponytail is starting to feel stupid. I go to bed at ten p.m. on most nights, even weekends. I am not impressed with most of the crap on the radio these days.

            I am also starting to visibly age, but all is not lost; I’m just in the “prevention” stage of things. I’m using anti-wrinkle cream because I see the appearance of fine lines around my brow. My freckles are no longer cute, but multiplying as a sign of skin damage. This probably is mostly due to the years of unhealthy tanning that I’m struggling to wean myself off of, but I didn’t think I scowled so much.

            Maybe I am scowling more, because I am already a disgruntled old lady in spirit. I feel like I don't identify with a  lot of people anymore. I feel like some older people don't take me seriously because of my age. Then, many people my age or just a couple of years younger than me irritate me to no end. And most kids these days (that’s right, I said it. Kids. These. Days.) do not know how to behave. I don’t have children, so I probably shouldn’t judge, but I was a child once. I know it’s increasingly long ago, but damn, it wasn’t that long ago. When I see a child screaming and running amuck in a store, knocking things over, I visibly cringe. When I have people who bring their kids in my office and they are literally picking up things off my desk and throwing them, I have to hold back my own screams (and thank the teams of doctors and activists who created birth control and its distribution).

            I try to give people a benefit of a doubt. Maybe I’m mistaking their complacency for utter beaten-down exhaustion. I know the only thing my mother-in-law could do to make my husband’s childhood tantrums to stop would be to just walk away. Then he would stop. But, some of these parents don’t seem to even try. Back in my retail days, some parents seemed genuinely amused when their children were climbing on very expensive displays or destroying merchandise. One time, I was witnessing a full-blown tantrum in a checkout line with my mother. I turned to her and whispered, “my God, how could you stand it?”

            My mother, never in the mood for such bullshit, replied in a loud voice, “Easy, you weren’t allowed to act like that.”

            Very true. I remember that if I acted up in a store, my mom would pull my ass out of there and into the car, where I would either cry myself out or be lectured into submission. I don’t remember a lot of punishments, or, dare I say it, SPANKINGS. But they happened. They just didn’t have to happen often, because the threat was enough. I knew my parents would follow through with the punishment. There was no bargaining (“If you’re good in the store, you get a toy”). In my family, if you’re good in the store, you will have a nice ride home without a sore ass. And you might be allowed to go again.

            This time of the year is the worst. Have you ever seen a child throwing an absolute fit of greed in a store and just wanted to walk up to them and tell them that Santa isn't real? Or that their parents don't really love them? I have mentioned this to a few people, but I would never do it. No one seems to think it's as funny as I do.

            These bratty kids that I have started noticing only a few years ago are now teenagers and even in their early 20’s. These are the people I had to oversee at my retail jobs. Girls who just show up for work when they feel like it (unfortunately, I worked for a company that was very difficult to get fired from). Girls who cannot form a coherent sentence without the word “like” (I know I have been guilty of this, but in a professional setting, I can cut it out). I’ve interviewed girls who have shown up wearing tank tops and flip flops. I could be interviewing for a head stripper position at the Playhouse off the interstate south of town and would dress nicer than some of these girls.

            And the sad thing is, they see nothing wrong with it. They think they might actually get the job. Who is teaching these people? Nobody, that's who.

            One of the biggest gripes I have as a new old person is how addicted some young people are to technology, and how annoying they are with it.

            I went to the gym this morning and noticed most of the usual people. As I walked by the recumbent bikes, I noticed a young couple I see often on my mornings at the gym. Since they always work out together, I had thought the guy might be the girl’s trainer, but it’s become increasingly evident that they are dating. They have to be next to each other at the gym. Every. Second. I’m not against going to the gym with your partner. I think it’s actually a great idea, but you aren’t going to see Josh and me chatting and brushing up against each other on side by side recumbent bikes, which is exactly what this couple was doing. I immediately disliked the girl because she looked way too cute to be at the gym. Her blonde hair was pulled back to reveal perfect full make-up, and she was clad in a cute gray sweat suit. This is sheer jealousy talking, because I can’t wear gray, especially to the gym. But a black shirt on me, and I might not sweat a drop.  But, I could be sitting on a curb in the middle of an Arctic snowstorm and would pit out through a gray shirt, not to mention the ass cheek sweat stains.

            I mentally roll my eyes and head toward my favorite corner. There are four treadmills in a row. On one end, a girl runs at effortlessly fast pace, not even breaking a sweat. I take my place at the other end, leaving two treadmills between us.

            Running was terrible, and I don’t want to talk about it, so after a sad attempt at a half mile, then a quarter mile. I decided that my time would be better served walking briskly on an incline, both working my running muscles and burning fat, two things I need to improve my running.

            As I’m dripping uphill, Romeo and Juliet come sauntering over to my corner, hands brushing against each other. Oh goody, two treadmills side by side, it’s so perfect. Juliet climbs on next me, and is having trouble starting her treadmill up.

            “Oh no,” she starts to panic and frantically hit the Quick Start button. “Crap, come on, come on.” She looks around for other adjoining treadmills and sees none. Oh no, will she actually have to be away from her beloved for her cardio.

            Saved by the goddess Aphrodite (the goddess of love), her treadmill starts. I swear I heard her sigh with relief. How pathetic. She adjusts her speed and incline and immediately grabs her cell phone, and I immediately want to leave her side.

            “Oh my god, look at this picture Jana posted of me. All you can see is the side of my head. Oh my god, there are like, twenty like that. Oh, look at this one. Isn’t that like, so cute? Look. Look.” She shows her boyfriend, who is feigning interest. He nods and offers a non-committal, "Yeah, that's cool." Like, oh my God, stop enabling her idiocy.

            She continues to go through every facebook photo that was posted through her past drunken weekend that I don’t care to know anything about. I’m pretty hard of hearing, but I could hear her stupid rambling stories over my iPod, which was blasting what she would call oldies.

“So this girl walked in on someone taking a pee in the bathroom, and there were like, six girls there. And someone said, like, ‘I don’t care whose house this is.’ And that was like, the first time Kelli met Stacy so Stacy was like whatever, like I don’t want to be a bitch because I don’t know her, but she’s fat. And then she was like, ‘well I can work on my body but you can’t work on your face.’ Then I was like, ‘don’t be rude.’ But she totally was kinda fat.”

I don’t know what perplexed me more, that I may have sounded that brain-dead not too many moons ago, or that this girl actually had an experience away from her boyfriend enough to tell him a story. Either way, I wanted to strangle her with my iPod cord. I snuck a sideways glance and felt comforted when I saw her slightly thickening belly. Ah yes, me four years ago. You just wait girlie, keep drinking with Kelli and Stacy and your fat days are coming.

She is on her cell phone the entire time, texting, looking at facebook, and doing God knows what. There is no way she has anything that important going on. I know I’m pretty attached to my Blackberry, but I enjoy putting it down every once in a while. What upset me was that the ladies in the senior swim class probably group me in with this girl. I can't stand the thought. This is the type of girl I will be interviewing, and her ringtone will tell me how her milkshake brings all the boys to the yard. What? Too old of a song? Shit.

After what seemed like an eternity, I can't take anymore, not even for literary purposes. I went to the spin room to get some solitary cardio in. I have been trying out the spin bikes before I commit to an hour class and I'm glad I did. I'm awkward and I'm learning the ropes on how to adjust the damn things. I also wanted to spy on the new classes being offered in the workout studio. On Friday, I learned that my gym started offering Zumba, which is nice, because all this time that "At my gym, free Zumba comes standard" poster in that bathroom has just been one big lie. The darkness of the spin room and the surrounding mirrors of the studio offer a creepers dream. I observed a lady who was in her forties practicing some moves that I think I saw in an MC Hammer video. I can't be sure because she looked so arthritic doing it. I giggled to myself. I can just tell myself that I don't look that silly, yet.

But my day is coming, and so is Juliet's. I look in the mirror. Yep, still on that phone. A girl like that will never know what she is missing, which is Miss Middle Age WASP doing awkward hip thrusts, and the young Zumba instructor trying not to laugh.

Journey almost gets me through the second half mile

            Now that I’m finally feeling good about life, and running, I wanted to keep the party going. For the first time in probably a freaking month, I am progressing and beating this interval. I feel rejuvenated, on top of the world, and thin. Who would have known passing up Shrimp Diablo Fettuccine at Bonefish Grill would make you feel so slim?
            That’s what happened when I tried Bonefish for the first time Tuesday, and I woke up Wednesday feeling rested (for once) and excited. Now, my goal is not only to complete a half mile interval, but the whole freaking thing. That means both half miles, and both quarter miles. Also, I am noticing that my body is taking less time to recover, and I do not need to take the allotted time or distance for walking. I am able to push myself more.
            And push myself I did. I ran my first half mile at a faster pace and finished it without a problem. Turns out, grilled shrimp and scallops with steamed veggies and two (ok, three) glasses of red wine make the perfect running fuel. Who, other than a classy fisherman (or maybe that crazy Alaskan Sarah Palin) would have known? 
            For my last half mile, I thought I needed a special song. Music is very important to me in all aspects of my life, and it is pivotal in my training. Up until this point, I have been sticking with the angrier side of my iPod. Now, I’m trying to find some more encouraging music. When I’m getting ready to start hobbling into my run, I hit the shuffle button, as I am incapable of making almost any decision, especially a music one.
            I pass this song, think about it, then go back. Hmm, this might work. Yeah, let’s get after school special in this bitch.
            The first keyboard chords of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” starts to play, and I smirk at my own goofiness. It’s sad that it’s come to this, but it’s really more positive than Marilyn Manson’s “The Beautiful People.”
            I start out fast. Well, fast for me, meaningI made a deal with myself: I cannot look at my distance until the chorus of “Don’t Stop Believing” rings in my headphones. I start to do the math. Ok, that chorus is probably roughly about two and a half minutes in, over halfway through the song. If I’m running 5.5, no dammit, 5.3, (pant, pant pant, wipe the sweat out of my eyes) fuck, 5.1 m.p.h…. Ah! It’s not going to be as far as I’d like.
            “In the NIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHHHT…” Cue the longest guitar solo of my life. Clearly, the movie is not the only thing that never ends and goes on and on and on in this song.
            Finally, the chorus comes and I almost scream “DON’T STOP! BELIEVING!” I slam my finger on the pace button. Damn, only a pathetic three-tenths of a mile. I’m not going to stop believing, but I do believe I need a drink of water. I jump on the sides, take a sip, and pep talk myself into running the rest. It’s a horrific, slow stompfest, but I finished off that interval, all the while pretending I didn’t feel like I was peeing myself.
            Some people have treadmills that they like to stick to at the gym. I have one of these, in the back corner close to the spin room. It is farthest from the door with a minimum of neighbors. Now, I also have a favorite bathroom stall, which is closest to the bathroom door, screw the neighbors. You can see the difference in urgency when you look at the locations of these favorite spots.
            I finish my time with some inclined walking. I have recently discovered this as a fantasic fat burner, and a way to work my running muscles without feeling tired and shamed. Well, the important thing is that I feel I can definitely handle the half mile now, and I am gaining on this interval set. This week, I might have the courage to finally look at the next one. I have to successfully complete this set three consecutive times before I feel comfortable about moving on.

Finally, a win.

I’m not sure what’s wrong with me, but it has taken all my strength to get out of bed in the morning. I know I have written about my usual struggles with getting out of bed, but this is worse than the usual bouts of laziness. I am utterly exhausted. Yesterday morning, I felt like a drunk struggling to keep conscious. This morning, I had to literally force my eyes open by rubbing them. I am not a person who is usually dependent on coffee, but this morning I’m on my second cup, about ready to reach for a third. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t had a restful weekend in as long as I can remember (planning and carrying out a party or family gathering may be fun, but it is anything but relaxing). Maybe it’s the awful cold that has reappeared in my system. It could be the dreary weather.

Whatever it is, all I know is I’m tired when I should be excited and energized. I am also tired of writing about my failures and struggles. I have been slacking on the posts, but not the running. I have to prove to myself that I can do the half-mile, whatever it takes. And, I have to use my best muscle, my brain. After some careful thought, I decided to switch the order of my intervals. It could be that simple. Instead of starting with the quarter mile, then running a half mile, then repeating, I am going to start with the half mile, then the quarter, then repeat. I debated a lot about whether or not this was cheating. I decided it isn’t, because I am still doing the same amount of distance, in the same amount of time.

I decided Friday, my birthday, would be the big day to try this out. I had taken the day off to run some errands. A lot of people, including my husband, assumed I was just taking a personal fun day, but the truth is I had a lot of shit to do. This “shit” included my yearly physical. Happy Fucking Birthday to me.

Now, I’m not going to go into a running monologue about what goes down in that little pleasant exam room, so you male readers can just calm down. I will leave that to my mother-in-law when she’s about three glasses of merlot deep. She’s been a nurse longer than I’ve been alive so she has some good stories. I will say that men have it way too easy.

Actually, with all the unpleasantness that does on at the doctor’s office, the part I dread most is the scale. I had started weighing myself again two weeks ago, and it was about as bad as I expected. But, I had come to terms with that number. The shock has worn off. So, I approach the scale and start shedding clothing like it’s on fire. Off with the boots, the coat, the scarf and hat. I would take off my underwear if I could. Sweatshirt, off. Take the cell phone out of my pocket, blow all the air out of my lungs, and step on.

I know that some scales differ, but the gym scale and the doctor’s scale showed about a ten pound difference. I know you can’t just dismiss ten pounds to a crappy scale. Good god, I haven’t even had birthday cake yet. My mind races. Am I pregnant? I can’t be pregnant. I haven’t even achieved my pre-baby body yet, and now I’m going to go ruin it more. Don’t I have enough stretch marks?

I curse out loud and the nurse laughs. I’m not amused. I gather up my crap and stalk into the examining room. I had prepared myself for maybe a little talk about weight, but now I’m thinking I am going to get a full lecture. I decide to be proactive and bring it up myself.

My doctor walks in and asks how I’m feeling. I tell her I feel great, except how crazy my weight is.

She doesn’t bat an eye. I know for a fact this woman schedules a patient every 15 minutes. If she works a full eight hour day, which I’m sure is a conservative number of hours, she sees 32 patients per day. According to a news article citing the Gallup-Healthways Well-Being Index, 26.5% of Americans are obese, not counting people who are just in the overweight category. So, she sees at least 8 to 9 fat asses just like me every single day. That is a very conservative number. This would explain the reaction that can almost be mistaken for boredom.

“Why is that, do you think?” she asks me.

I decide not to feed her any bullshit, because she probably doesn’t want to hear it. Plus, I only have fifteen minutes and this woman hasn’t gotten in the more invasive procedures yet. I don’t’ want her to have to rush through that.

“I cook a lot, and it’s not healthy. I eat like crap. And I love carbs,” I spout off. I leave the alcohol out of it because I told the nurse I was a social drinker. That is true, but I’m very social.

She nods to all my offenses. “Do you exercise?”

“Yes, believe it or not,” I snap. I tell her about my 5k training and she smiles.

“That’s good,” she says. “You are aware of your situation and you are working at it.”

My angelic doctor offers me some running advice and even gave me some races to look for in the spring. I am grateful, and not completely humiliated. Now that’s what I call bedside manner.

I go straight to the gym after leaving her office. On the drive over, I constantly think about that horrible number I saw in red. No wonder it’s so hard for me to do this half mile, it takes so much effort to move my massive body. It was clearly easier for me to do this when I was in college and was carrying around only about 150.

I climbed on the treadmill, determined and nervous. I am going to be relaxed and just focus on finishing. No side steps to breathe, no sips of water, an authentic finish. I put on some more chill music, CCR’s “The Old Man Down the Road”, which was more pleasant than angrily stomping through a run.

I went an agonizingly slow pace and fought temptation to go faster and get it over with. And you know what? I finished. I did the whole thing. And instead of feeling dead tired, I felt good.

After that, my quarter mile intervals seem to fly by without too much struggle. I remember the days I agonized through three minutes of running. That’s what I need to think about instead of dwelling on how hard three miles is going to be. Right now, it seems astronomical, insurmountable. But, like Lao Tzu said, “A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step.” It’s one of my favorite quotes that I use at work, but now I really understand it.

Confessions

       Ok, time to confess. I have not made an entry because I have been extremely busy. Also, because I have been busy, I have been slacking on the running. I have not been to the gym since last Monday, and that run was pathetic due to a Charlie Horse caused by a severe dehydration. This was a side effect of cheap Captain and Diet doubles and shaking my groove thing all night long at my sister-in-law’s wedding. This was followed by getting sick on my in-law’s front lawn, then washing the remnants of that episode out of Josh’s rental tie with hand soap, then slurring apologies to my mother-in-law while I suck down chicken wings with my father-in-law.          

Honestly, I don’t know why they put up with me.

Well, yesterday it was back on the treadmill horse. I am recovering from a nasty cold, no doubt due to my immune system weakened by lack of exercise. I was coming off a steady diet of homemade chicken (leftover turkey) noodle soup, NyQuil, and sleep. I am a firm believer that this little tri-fecta of heaven will cure anything. Take that, Jonas Salk.

During my time of laziness, I have not stopped thinking about this interval, and how I’m going to beat it. The obvious answer would to be to beat it with practice, which clearly I’ve lapsed on. To be honest, it’s really hard to walk into the gym knowing you are going to get your ass beat up over something that is easy for most people to do. It’s really disheartening. I’m sure most people can relate to this, at home, at work, at school, wherever.

But, that is not an excuse to accept failure. I need to look at this as a challenge I should be motivated to overcome. Every day is an opportunity to finish it and move on. But, this positive “can do” attitude is waning. I need to feel a win, but I need to keep trying first.

So I think about it. Constantly. I think about it when I’m driving to and from work. I think about it as I sit in my rocking chair. I think about it when I got to bed and when I get up in the morning. I think about what I used to do, and what I’m capable of doing now.

Finally, I get an idea. Slow and steady wins the race. I say this a lot, and try to apply that to multiple areas of my life. This is challenging, since I can’t stand to do hardly anything slowly.

But, when I started running in college, I ran on an indoor track. I would have a set distance in mind, and I could visualize the finish. I would run super slow, just whatever it took to finish. I decide to decrease my speed on the treadmill. I don’t care if I look like I’m about to trip over my shoelaces, or simply keel over, it’s all about finishing a half mile at this point. I need to prove to myself that I can do it.

I get into the gym and make my way to the treadmills. I spot this very fit looking man doing a very slow jog on his treadmill. I smile inside. This guy is probably a marathon runner, and he is going slow as hell. He’s barely stumbling along! I definitely have the right idea here. I catch a glimpse of the speed as I pass by. 5.0, dammit. What looks horrifically slow to me is not that much slower than what I usually run. Well, let’s try that.

So, I started my run, focused on taking things slow and steady. Instead of cussing and angrily pushing through, I decided to focus on breathing and just being relaxed. I finished a quarter mile feeling like I could go another quarter. I was ready for that half mile. A pretty amazing feat, considering how little I had run in the past two weeks.

My half mile was challenging, but other than a very short step to the side to take a sip of water, I made it! I even kicked up my speed a little at the end. The beauty of a distance interval is, I actually ran for a longer period of time than ever before. At my pathetic pace, a half mile should be between five and six minutes. Before I was running three minute intervals, so there is improvement! Small victory!

I did a very challenging quarter mile after and then had to run to the bathroom. My bladder is killing me, why do I feel like I constantly have to go? I make sure to go right before running but it doesn’t really help. My mother-in-law is a nurse and she says that it’s a common problem in women. Great. I would appreciate any advice on this subject.
I return from the bathroom and get back on the treadmill, and try to will myself to run this half mile straight through. To avoid watching my distance slowly tick by, I change the display on the screen and pull my eyes up, right into the ass of the old man in front of me. During my visit to the can, the stair stepper in front of me became occupied by this senior citizen with spandex pants so tight, they would make Richard Simmons blush. Seriously, if this guy was a day under 75, then I’m freakin’ Chuck Norris. His pants were dark gray and showed every wrinkle, crease, and dimple in his old man behind. His pants were wedged so far into his crack, not only am I certain he is not wearing underwear but I might be able to guess what he had for dinner last night.

Naturally, I am repulsed. Another old guy without underwear, what is going on here? Do I have some kind of old, creepy balls magnet on me that I’m not aware of? Is my gym some kind of secret hangout place for men teetering on the very edge of sanity? How many cats does this guy own? Or dolls? Does he talk to them? Do they talk back?

Physically speaking, this man appears to be in pretty good shape. There is no escaping the effects of age and gravity, so the skin is really the only loose thing on this guy. He is lasting a pretty long time on this stair-climbing machine. We are all rewarded with a view of the sweat stains developing under the flapping curves of his old cheeks.

But, it could be worse; I could be facing the front of Mr. Hot Pants. I decide to count my blessings, and accept Old Man River’s body as punishment for slacking on my running. I force myself to suffer through the rest of my time positioned directly downwind from his Gold Bond medicated body.

Finally, I stretch out in the empty group class studio. It smells strongly of disinfectant. Ah, Handy Hank has been here. I have almost missed him. I feel better than I have in a while, and I vow not to be away from this gym for so long again. I’m back, bitches.

On turning 25

This Friday, I will be turning 25, a quarter of a century old. Yippee. I keep telling people how I’m irritated because I can’t even say I’m in my early twenties, now, I’m officially on my way to 30, or halfway to 50. I say this to people who normally don’t ask, because they don’t really care how I feel about turning such a pathetically young age. I’m not really sure why I care, to be honest.

            I’ve never really been big on birthdays. Frankly, the only good thing about having your birthday in December is it gives you an opportunity to “combine” Christmas and birthday presents for something really awesome. But, this is not a very big upside. The only big present I remember combining as a child was a 10-gallon aquarium with some colorful fish. It was awesome for a while, but then it eventually ended up being a constant battle of keeping the tank clean, replacing dying fish, and a running joke in high school about having crabs.
            Really, a birthday in December means everyone’s usually too busy celebrate your birthday, especially when my brother and my sister started playing basketball. I personally was just a spectator at these games. I came to realization I was not an athlete during my first volleyball game (as if the years of weak t-ball games weren't enough). It was during this game that I learned that a serve that hits you in the face is a legal hit, and still in play. Sadly, I learned that lesson twice that game.

Even if we weren’t busy, it’s usually too cold or crappy outside to do anything worthwhile. There’s also a good chance there will be a Christmas tree on your store-bought cake (see: “too busy”), and when you get into college, no one wants to go out because your nerdy friends are studying for finals at that time.

            It’s not that people in my life haven’t tried. One childhood birthday that really sticks out in my mind was my ninth birthday. I really wanted to go to the Pizza Peddler in Sioux City. For those of you who are not familiar with the rejuvenation of the old stockyards of Sioux City, Pizza Peddler was the like hillbilly equivalent of Chuck E. Cheese. I was pumped to go, but, unfortunately, Iowa weather reared its ugly head and we were hit with a blizzard.

Now, my mother is a weather fanatic. She watches the Weather Channel like most men watch ESPN. I would say that she nervously bites her nails on a cloudy day, but that would mean she would have to put on new nails. So, she verbally projects her concern instead. Repeatedly. Her philosophy, “there’s a 20% chance of precipitation, I’m not chancing it. It’s not worth it.”

Normally, I would downplay the weather that night and say it was just a few flakes, but this was a pretty bad storm. I sat at the top of the stairs listening to my mom use worried tones with my father as he cleaned up from the hog barn. Likewise, he is elected to give me the bad news. I am beckoned downstairs, already dressed and ready to go.

“Sugar, it’s really bad outside. I don’t think we can go to Sioux City tonight,” he says to me.

I stare at the floor, trying as hard any nine-year old girl can not to cry.

“Look at me,” my dad said.

I have to look. My chin is trembling, and I’m trying to stay strong.

“Did you really want to go tonight?” He asks me.    

I want to say I understand, but I can’t speak otherwise I will start hysterically bawling.

I already got enough shit from my older siblings about being a crybaby, so I only manage a nod.
            “Will you be really upset if we don’t go?” he asks.
            I don’t know how to respond to this. So I just stay silent.
            “Well,” my dad said. “Let’s get in the car.”
            During the 50 mile and almost two hour car ride to Sioux City, there were white knuckles and little noise, but we made it to find a nearly deserted Pizza Peddler. The teenage employees were not psyched to see us.

It was a memorable birthday. The machine-powered coyote that brought out your pizza kept shorting out. The teenagers running the voice of the coyote were giggling and saying inappropriate things. We ate pizza and I got to try my first hand at bumper cars. In my allotted time, I found two defective bumper cars. By the time I found a winner (a car that ran) I had just enough time left to get stuck in a corner by my two siblings.
It was a birthday I will never forget.

Despite the complaining, I’ve never had a bad birthday, but I’ve just learned to not make it a big deal. This year, I decided to make it a big deal. A friend from work shares my December birthday pains and we decided to have a joint party at my house. Weather and finals weeks snuck in their inevitable interference (damn you, grad school friends) and some people could not make it. Mid-twenties is a wierd age. There are new reasons for missing a social gathering, ones I never fathomed I'd experience until "I was older." I now have friends that deal with babysitting issues, moving, starting new jobs, lack of vacation time, lack of funds and other things.
Even with some cancels, I had plenty of people at my house. I was happy to see that I have so many friends, some of which drove quite a way just to stay one night to celebrate with me.

            Through my fifth cup of jungle juice I found myself in the lower level of my house talking to a co-worker. I remember rambling about something no one cares about and started to reach for the high school cheerleading pictures. This is a key indicator, as accurate as a litmus test, to indicate that I have had too much to drink. Nobody needs to see those. Luckily, I can’t find the pictures. I realized, at that moment, that I need to stop living in the past.
            So, I apologize to anyone who has had to sit through my gallery of smiling, skinny high school photos, and how I lament on how I could have and should have gone to this program or that. I am sorry I rudely spouted off grades and ACT scores, because it doesn’t matter to anyone else. Why should it matter to me? What’s wrong with my life now? Absolutely nothing.            

             So, in my 25^th year, I had a good birthday that I celebrated with good friends. I’m starting my Master’s degree and am going to stop bitching about what things used to be like, and start looking at what they will be like. I will acheive this 5k, among other things.

             Hopefully, I will  have many more birthdays to dread.